


bones that slip backwards

by bunot



Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: Bathing/Washing, Canon Compliant, Confessions, Flashbacks, Getting Back Together, Hurt/Comfort, Implied Sexual Content, Injury Recovery, Light Angst, M/M, Post-Time Skip, Sharing a Bed
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-06
Updated: 2020-07-06
Packaged: 2021-03-04 21:47:10
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,010
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25013398
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bunot/pseuds/bunot
Summary: He tries to convince himself that the moment is one trapped in this afternoon nap. That there exists a ghost which just so happens to carry sly eyes and a profile as Hellenistic as they come.Atsumu tends to a corporeal injury, a journey to self worth, and a rekindled relationship– all in one night.
Relationships: Miya Atsumu/Suna Rintarou
Comments: 30
Kudos: 203





	bones that slip backwards

**Author's Note:**

> hello! this isn't as canon-driven as a lot of my other fics, and it definitely took a lot of planning and scrapping and rewriting, but i followed what i felt fit for these two, along with lots of bits of tender. here is a [playlist](https://open.spotify.com/user/katehizon21/playlist/1RrDPc9TpraYfNsUnCHhkz?si=0w7Duc6_SD2uzE7zKgLf_g) to go along with it! i hope it still rings true to my idea of a comfort fic <3

“Pylades: I’ll take care of you.

Orestes: It’s rotten work.

Pylades: Not to me. Not if it’s you."

― Anne Carson, _Euripides_

___________________________

Two seconds after Atsumu wakes up he has enough– just barely enough, but _enough_ – of a conscious mind to see a figure in his room. 

He tries to convince himself that the moment is one trapped in this afternoon nap. That there exists a ghost which just so happens to carry sly eyes and a profile as Hellenistic as they come.

It'd be wrong to think otherwise because Suna is supposed to be in Hiroshima, practicing in his own team, blocking shots on his own court on the other side of the country. Because Suna has not spoken to him since graduation. Not even a call on the day that Atsumu's fibula decided to snap, and definitely not during the weeks of lonesome purgatory that followed.

But the man in front of him presses a small smile– too ripe and splitting of its own accord. It's human.

"Rin?" Atsumu sits up and a sharp pain shoots down his calf. He hisses.

"Careful," Suna warns. 

Atsumu lunges forward and pushes the blanket off in frustration. 

"What time is it?" He asks, still fighting to pry his eyes open.

"Half past two."

"How did you get in here?" 

"I asked Osamu where the spare key is," He puts a plastic bag down on Atsumu's desk. "I finally get a day off, use it to find the first train here, and all I get in return is a questionnaire." 

"Shit, sorry." Atsumu clutches the bed frame for support to inch himself into a sitting position. "You- I just thought you were a ghost." 

"Not a ghost." Suna's eyes are the wilted parsley garnish of an old meal as he makes his way to the bed, hands gripping Atsumu's forearms to help him up. "I'm the only version of myself stupid enough to be here."

Atsumu reaches for him. This world has never needed a man to hold onto so badly. And even after years of being apart, Suna's flesh is all familiar.

He doesn't point out the obvious question of _Why are you here?_ In return, Suna lets him position his top half until comfortable. Once done, he retracts all his limbs. 

"Have you eaten? I bought soup on the way here." 

Atsumu shakes his head, then winces. The ceilings of his orbital sockets are still throbbing with a migraine.

So Suna gets up to remove his coat and boots, his body arched in contrapposto as he places them by the desk. The articles of clothing are traded for a take-out box, a styrofoam bowl, and a pair of chopsticks. 

After he climbs back into bed, careful not to bump against the medical boot, he folds his legs into a pretzel and faces him.

Atsumu sort of wants to kiss him.

"I got you extra chashu."

Atsumu _really_ wants to kiss him. 

But Suna is staring at the items like they require utmost concentration, never once looking back up at Atsumu. His freshly bandaged fingers slip in five pieces of meat, then the noodles, then the green onion and bamboo.

The smell of the broth lingers heavily between them, but underneath even that, when Atsumu leans forward just a little, he gets a whiff of sandalwood. He's starving.

"You can go back to sleep after this," Suna says, mixing the contents with a calculated precision. 

"I won't," He promises. "I'm okay."

Suna lifts the noodles to blow on them, then presses them to Atsumu's lips until his mouth gets the hint and opens.

It's salt-based shio, and even though it means to be light, the soaked noodles feel heavy on his tongue. Atsumu's gaining consciousness way too slowly. The whole scene envelopes his insides in a hazy ease. 

A few bites go by in silence before Suna cuts through the air again.

"How are you feeling?"

Atsumu decides to humor him. "Like shit."

His guest doesn't laugh. Instead, his eyebrows furrow.

"Have you been to the doctors recently?"

"Last week," Atsumu watches him adjust his hold on the chopsticks. "Maybe two months or so until I can take the boot off."

He expects Suna to reply with positive reinforcement but all he says in return is, "Oh."

For some reason, his voice sounds scared. 

"I'll be back soon," Atsumu assures. "Fractures aren't an unprecedented thing in the sports world."

"Right." Maybe he noticed the change in tone. "I hope it goes by fast." 

Atsumu thanks him, then pays more mind to the fatty meat, the way it almost dissolves on his tongue. 

"I haven't eaten take-out like this in forever," he says. "Hinata only brings over stir-fried vegetables."

Suna finds himself back into the groove. "That's probably why you haven't grown any taller either." 

Atsumu pulls back. 

"You can't possibly know that by me laying down."

"I can just tell."

He surrenders with a huff. 

It's not that the banter is anything out of the ordinary, it's just that Suna sounds almost defensive about it.

"Thanks for the meal."

He is met with a nod, curt and forced.

And the minutes go by something like this: Suna pushes another mouthful of egg noodles. Atsumu tears through a strand, then halves those pieces, then halves them again until there's nothing left but unrecognizable saliva mush.

Suna stares at a point just past Atsumu's ear. 

"Osamu talked to you about me?"

He's only half joking at this point. Suna shakes his head.

"He did but that wasn't it," he says. "Some people were talking about your conference panel too."

Atsumu goes to cover his face with his forearm, immediately groaning at the memory of what he is alluding to. 

"Oh please not that."

"Those interviewers looked terrified of you."

"Well yeah, I had a rough day."

"Not just that," Suna continues, swirling the chopsticks. "Everyone knows that's how you felt. It's all so… public."

Atsumu doesn't think it made much difference-- public or private. The shame was there either way. He had spent weeks in his apartment reliving the moment over and over, the way he pushed that microphone and walked off that stage. He had way too much time to dwell on it. 

He looks up.

"Well, mortification fades." 

At this, Suna almost scoffs. "How would _you_ know?"

The question almost makes him laugh and cry and maybe tear his chest open. All the things he had to lose over the years. His tournament games. His number 1 Inarizaki jersey. His brother beside him. His title as the MSBY Black Jackal's starting setter. At this point, his contact with the outside world. 

Atsumu shrugs. "I had to get back on my feet after losin' you." 

He doesn't say anything and Atsumu doesn't press the conversation any further.

Instead, he looks at Suna's legs, folded into two small triangles. He must be playing a lot nowadays; Atsumu has an idea of how much muscle a couple block-heavy games can foster. He must be doing a lot of things with the Raijins that don't involve trembling in the bed of your former teammate, former high school sweetheart. 

The air gets cut again. 

"Do you want to sip the broth?" 

He shakes his head. In the end, soup is just another form of saltwater and his throat feels thoroughly abraded. "I can turn on the TV though."

Suna shoves the styrofoam onto the bedside table and settles back against the headboard. It's a familiar position for the two of them, and Atsumu's stupid chest tugs at the thought of it. 

He pushes it away, fishing for the remote under his thigh and points it at the television. "Any requests?"

"Anything but volleyball."

Atsumu settles for a daytime variety show. 

Inside him the satisfaction of a soup meal battles against the tension of his brain. But the warmth grows so much that he melts into the mattress, promise broken, eyelids fluttering close once again.

__________________________

Like all things do, it started at a shitty house party. One in the winter of their first year. 

The thing was it wasn't even a proper occasion for a reunion. It was January 5th, days after the celebration train of Christmas and New Years had died down, when everyone was finally finishing up leftovers and saying goodbye to visiting family. But Ginjima had called the volleyball club and insisted on getting together and celebrating Kita-san's half birthday. 

Atsumu could say he had been dragged into it, but the truth was he genuinely excited. He could say house parties were one of the luxuries of his teenage career, but in all honesty he had only been invited to a handful in the years prior. 

But that night, the mansion they were in had been _packed._ Apparently Oomimi had also invited friends from his university, and there were definitely Inarizaki students that weren't even club affiliates. Atsumu had greeted dozens of faces over the course of the night, only half he actually recognized. He was almost exhausted, and he decided to step into the kitchen to find Osamu.

On the way there, a body bumped into him.

“Atsumu, shit, watch where you're going." 

He felt a warm hand on his shoulder, holding him at arm's width. There was Suna, sporting slightly droopy eyelids, presumably because of the beer he was holding in one hand. He didn't sound too drunk however, which Atsumu took as a good thing.

"Are you okay?" 

"Yeah," Atsumu nodded. "I'm good."

"Alright." Suna nodded, unconvinced. "Do you need a drink?"

He looked past Suna's shoulder at the backyard, scanning the area for a badly dyed ash grey.

"Atsumu?"

"Huh?" He snapped back into himself. "Oh, no, I had one. Thanks." 

Suna let his hand fall to his side, and Atsumu noticed that his fingers were bandaged, even though they hadn't had practice since before holiday break. His eyes flickered back up to his teammate. 

"If you're looking for your brother he left with someone," Suna had said, seemingly sobering up. "They took the train to one of the night markets." 

"Ugh," Atsumu groaned, hands curling into fists at his side. "I'm gonna have to vouch for him." 

"I'll take the train with you," Suna offered, voice unwavering. "We can scapegoat me."

"No, it's fine." He hung his head, sighing. 

"We're at a party, Atsumu," Suna had teased, "Here, come with me."

He lifted his head up. At that moment, Suna took his wrist, and tugged, fingers warm against Atsumu's pulse. Before long he found he was being dragged from the kitchen out to the backyard, to the scene of a crowd of people dancing and other small groups standing together, either drinking or smoking. 

Except Suna was making a beeline for the furthest corner of the lawn, where Atsumu could make out a tiny metal folding table. Ginjima was there, and so was Kosaku and Riseki. 

There were some items scattered around the table, and also, a deck of cards. 

Upon closer inspection, Atsumu realized they were playing poker.

And at that specific moment Ginjima had smiled, unapologetically carnivorous. He extended his arms out, revealing her hand. 

"Sorry, boys! Two pair. Read 'em and weep." 

The reveal was met by groans, and Riseki bouncing his beer can against the table, liquid sloshing onto the grass below. 

Ginjima merely laughed, arms reaching forward to drag his loot closer, among it coins, crumpled dollar bills, lip balm, a granola bar, sunglasses, and a polaroid of a woman that looked vaguely like their first year homeroom teacher. 

"Atsumu!" Kosaku greeted, and Atsumu felt calmed by the genuinely excited call of his name.

"Want us to deal you in?" Ginjima asked, fixing his newly acquired sunglasses on. 

Maybe Suna had the right thinking. Osamu wasn't going to be beside Atsumu forever. There were times he would be left to his own solitary devices. And in those times, he would have to just take life by the balls and make a name for himself. 

"I'll take a crack at it," he replied, pulling the open chair to sit down.

"Here we go," Suna sighed, nudging him so they could share the seat. 

"Alright," Ginjima smiled.

"Good luck," Kosaku had said, just before picking up the deck once more to begin the shuffling of red and black quicksand.

It had been a while since he had played or watched anyone play poker, but he was feeling giddy watching his own hand. He was being cocky, and with good reason. A few other students had gathered around by then, interested in the built up tension. He placed his cards down to pull out his wallet, throwing his student ID into the pile. 

"Alright Miya," Ginjima had his sunglasses resting atop his head by that time.

"I'm ready," he replied.

"I'm gonna frame that ID in the locker room," he smirked.

Cards were pushed onto the table.

"Shit," Aran let out, eyes wide. 

"Straight," Ginjima revealed, and the red set shone in that post-midnight darkness, "In diamond."

"Oh fuck!" Riseki yelled. Beside him, Suna had his hand covering his mouth, as to not make a sound. 

"That's rich, princess," Atsumu feigned shock. "But better luck next time." 

"What?"

He laid his arm down, and watched his opponent's face fall. Suna was fully laughing now, head tilted back.

"Royal flush," he declared. "In your honor."

The crowd let out its noise, whooping mixed with unsatisfied groans. Atsumu's smug smile radiated and he tossed Suna the pair of sunglasses and a couple of dollar bills. He took his student ID back, making a show of tucking it back into his wallet. 

It was amidst all the drunken chaos of that night when Suna pulled his head back up to look at the boy next to him and smile, eyes glossed over. They were sharing body heat at that point. It only felt natural for Atsumu to allow the involuntary movement of muscle, lifting Suna's arm into the air, bandaged fingers intertwined with his in victory. 

__________________________

When Atsumu wakes up the TV is still on but is now playing a documentary on what looks to be Antarctica. He blinks once, twice, focusing on the pixeled iceberg. It's the only form of cool blue light that shines through the room. The curtains have stayed drawn, so he still has no idea what time it is. 

Mixed in with the sound of the program's narrator, Atsumu realizes Suna is still in the room. He's pacing by door, but it's not the muffled sound of socked footprints that gives him away. It's the fact that he has a phone pressed to his ear. 

"Yes, I know," he mutters, at the same time a glacier breaks off, floating into the ocean. Atsumu searches for the remote again, this time by his ear, and lowers the volume.

"'No, I'll be back on Friday… Yeah… Please..."

The syllables come out clipped, forged with impatience. 

"Okay, thank you. No, I.... I will.... Bye."

When he hangs up, he looks up at the bed once, and then back down to his cell phone. There is no sign of being fazed at Atsumu suddenly awake. Instead, his fingers tap onto the screen in flutter. He doesn't even lift his head up to speak. 

“You should ask Osamu to do another grocery run soon. There's nothing in your fridge."

Atsumu adjusts himself. He doesn't try to reason that there _are_ two frozen pizzas _and_ a bag of chicken wings he planned on making tonight. 

"I'll try," he says, voice hoarse with disuse. 

"I brought new water because the other one was getting warm," his chin points up.

Atsumu looks over to see a new bottle already on the bedside table, condensation dripping down onto the wood. He clears his throat and grabs it. 

"Thanks." 

"Also I think you should try getting out of bed for a little," he pockets his phone. "It's five thirty."

Atsumu doesn't even try to argue back. It's pointless. Suna sounds like he collected a list of thoughts and practiced reciting them over and over again while Atsumu was asleep. With the way he is standing, still tense and overly cautious, Atsumu wouldn't be surprised if this was the truth.

He takes two big gulps and cuts the succession before it can get any worse. 

"Who were you talkin' to?"

"My coach," Suna replies. "I have to be back tomorrow morning." 

The water he had just swallowed seems to want to jump back up in his throat. He wants to swallow down the words that pop up in his head as well, but really, he has to know. 

"So," he cradles the base of the water bottle. "So you're stayin' here for the night?"

"Yeah, I planned to," Suna replies. "Unless you want me to find a hotel?"

Atsumu takes in the information slowly. 

It's the second post-nap jolt he's experienced today. Suna, despite seeming deathly terrified of his own presence here, wants to spend the night. It makes Atsumu feel like they are drawing something out. Taking it slow, but not in the hopes that it will be satisfying in the end. More like it will just leave the two of them hurt and raw. Pulling back a rubber band as far as he possibly can before letting it slap skin.

He still has too many questions, but maybe he does want to see where it goes. 

"No, you can stay here. I just didn't think you'd _want_ to stay."

At this his eyes widen and Atsumu thinks he has finally broken through. He tries to push himself up again, slower this time, in anticipation for a response. 

But it takes Suna too long to answer, and instead he goes back to the side of the bed to help Atsumu up. "Don't be a pain in the ass," he says quickly. "You can accept help, Atsumu."

Atsumu wants to spit something equally hypocritical, something cheesy about getting off a high horse, but he decides against it. He nods. This whole afternoon has been a challenge in holding his own tongue. 

Suna grabs under Atsumu's arms to peel him away from the mattress and onto the carpet floor. Atsumu places all his weight on the good leg, and Suna's fingers press against his wrist, guiding his arm around his neck for support.

"Ready?"

"Yeah."

They hobble together, step by step like a made-up dance through the bedroom and down the hall. Atsumu only has to push his palm against the walls twice, and Suna doesn't complain. 

Once they get to the living room, the late afternoon light spills through the opened curtains, and he is thankful for the reminder that life outside his bed still exists. 

"Okay steady," Atsumu says, and Suna helps him fall onto the couch cushion. 

Atsumu lifts his thigh up in small increments until the boot is rested on top of the coffee table. He sighs out of relief at the completed task, and then looks up.

Suna steps back and gestures vaguely to the room. 

Atsumu groans in embarrassment, realizing what Suna is referring to. 

Even worse than his own bed-ridden body was definitely the complete abandonment of any chores. There was meter-thick dust on the TV stand and a few of the house plants were now wilting in their own sadness. He hadn't washed any of the plates now piled up in the sink for the past week, either.

"Shouyou doesn't really stay to clean," he admits. "I tried asking him to bring Omi-kun once, but...."

Suna nods, not caring to hear the rest of his excuse, and begins walking into the kitchen. "Where do you keep everything?"

"You don't have to do anythin'," Atsumu insists. "The soup was 'nuff already." 

"Atsumu," he says his name in the same tone as earlier, though this time Atsumu recognizes it as less of assertion and more of pleading.

"Fine," he thinks back. "Supplies are either under that sink or the bathroom sink."

He hears a cabinet door open, and the sound of a familiar plastic caddy being placed on the table. 

"You don't have to just sit there and stare off into space," Suna tells him, walking back into the living room with a pair of latex gloves. "Just pretend I'm not here." 

Atsumu almost laughs at the irony of it all. He slowly pulls his foot down from the coffee table and pushes himself up onto the floor.

"I know you came here because you want to take care of me and all," he explains, hands splayed out on the coffee table. "But I feel like you're tryin' to do everythin' other than spend time with me."

"So what do you want me to do?" He asks, walking over to assist him again.

Atsumu drapes his arm over his shoulder. It's become a routine by now. "Take me to the kitchen. I'm gonna help you."

Suna flashes him a look of panic, but Atsumu challenges it, brown eyes boring into hazel ones. And the body carrying him relaxes for maybe the first time today, right before they hobble through the doorway. 

_____________________________

The day Osamu finally announced he didn't want to pursue volleyball, Atsumu nearly had a tantrum in public, even though at that point they were already in their third year of high school. 

If he was a _really_ terrible person, he would have screamed and cried and gathered all the employees and maybe even the manager. But in reality, he knew he couldn't. Kita-san had once told them that when you're on the court, you're responsible for all your actions and the consequences that come with them. There may be some divine presence looming over you, but everything you do is a choice.

He and his brother chose to fight in the middle of a Kansai Super. 

It was their Saturday off with no practice, and Osamu had insisted on stopping by to return some expired mayonnaise. Except he didn't have a proof of purchase. 

"Can't you just say you lost the receipt or something?" Atsumu asked, picking up a packet of gum in one of the aisle displays. He traced the plastic indents of the brand name, stroke by stroke. 

They had been going back and forth about the problem for a while, waiting for the line to move. 

"Are you stupid?" Osamu deadpanned, flipping through his school binder for what felt like the hundredth time. "They'll definitely think I stole it."

Atsumu was lucky he never liked cooking in the first place. He'd never had to deal with a volleyball net expiring any time soon. 

"It's just one jar, though." Atsumu had put the gum back and walked over to the shelf that displayed packaged nuts. "It probably costed you like 800 yen." 

Osamu unzipped the front pocket of his backpack again and took out three library books. "Well, without a receipt they won't know that."

"Did you try retracin' your steps?" Atsumu picked up an air freshener, holding it up to his nose. Mango. 

"Are you joking with me right now?"

"I'm not."

"'Tsumu."

There it was, the parental annoyance whine. Atsumu put the air freshener down and went to glance at the papers Osamu was going through. 

"I just don't get it," Atsumu caught a peek of some stupid fantasy novel. "Why can't you buy a new jar?"

"I used up my allowance this week on seaweed," Osamu replied, giving up and going into the next book. 

"You go and spend all yer money on food but still got the same knee pads from the fifth grade," Atsumu sighed, kneeling down to pick up the mayonnaise jar. "It's like you don't even care about volleyball."

"Volleyball's not gonna be forever for me," Osamu muttered, flipping through the back pages.

Atsumu looked up from the jar label. "Huh?"

"What?" 

"What do you mean volleyball's not going to be forever?" 

Osamu's hands froze. The book came down to his chest. 

"What I mean is," he cleared his throat. Atsumu hated seeing any expression of fear on a face too much like his own. "I don't think I'm gonna keep playing after high school."

It had to be a joke. 

"You're jokin'."

"I'm not," he shook his head and went back to flipping, but the sound of paper was like scraping metal to Atsumu's ears. "I'm dead serious, 'Tsumu. I just don't think it's cut out for me."

"But what about the dream?" Atsumu took a breath, shoulders spanning wide. Exhale. "What about both of us playing together?"

By that point, Osamu's glance had grown orthogonal, pupils reaching past the vanishing point of those printed words. 

"I don't want to keep living a dream that's not mine."

Atsumu put the jar on the floor.

His ears rang as he pushed past the other customers to leave, pretending not to hear his name being called by the mouth of traitor bound to him by blood. 

He didn't go home.

He took the train to Suna's. 

And when he opened the door, his hair was pulled back by a headband and he looked to be in the midst of studying, schoolwork sprawled across the living room table. 

"Atsumu-" He started.

Atsumu rushed into his space and pressed their chests flush together, enough that Suna could hear the quick thump of his heartbeat. The one he used to race all the way over here.

"Shit," Suna said. "Your pulse feels like you ran a marathon." 

He wrapped his arms around Atsumu to stroke the longer strands of his hair, and Atsumu buried himself tighter against Suna's neck. 

Later, they would lie side by side on Suna's bed, homework forgotten, backs pressed against the headboard as they searched for old movies to watch. The night would fall over them like a safety blanket and Atsumu would fall asleep pressed against the hollow of Suna's collarbone. He would take the train back home the next morning and Osamu would scold him relentlessly before also breaking down. He and his brother would cook a meal together and pretend they weren't on the verge of tears. 

But in that moment, Atsumu and Suna stood chest to chest for what felt like the enternity of that continuous present. Time was a flood of existence with their inhales and exhales synced up. A soft, soft togetherness. 

The world had never needed a boy to hold onto so tightly. 

_____________________________

The hours of cleaning pass with little conversation. Atsumu pulls up a chair and helps point out the expired goods, where the extra plastic bags are, what order the bowls should be stacked in.

He draws the whole caretaker line at dinner. Not only because he was never cut out for damsel in distress role, but because his patience is hanging from a thread. He can only take one spoon-fed meal a decade and the afternoon ramen has now filled that spot. He needs to take control of his own home.

"No," Atsumu says, balancing himself against the counter. "I'll fry the chicken. You just rinse the rice."

"Why?"

"Because I'm the injured one and I said so," he argues. "Grant me my dying wish to cook you a meal better than 'Samu does."

It shuts the other man up. He goes to open the tub, a deluge of rice hitting the metal bowl like pins. The bandages from earlier are no longer there, and now his bare fingertips brush through the grains.

It's stupid, Atsumu thinks. Arguing over who cooks and who eats and who cleans and who waits and why can't it be both of them. Both of them as pro-volleyball players. Both of them as men stubborn in their own ways. Both of them as sharp shards of glass, standing side by side on a stage that is Atsumu's apartment kitchen. 

Atsumu finds the old pot encrusted in years' worth of rust that no lemon-scented soap could scrub off. He plucks out the best drumsticks and wings from the bag and lays them to rest in their graveyard of 180 degrees celsius. Next to him, Suna plugs in the rice cooker and turns it onto cook mode.

The clock hits 7:45 and Suna sits down at the kitchen table. It takes everything in Atsumu not to speak about the elephant in the room. But gods, if there's anything he knows it's that he doesn't understand. He has to pull the bandaid off. 

"You know," he starts, "You still haven't told me exactly why you're here."

"I tried to tell you earlier," Suna says, flipping through a newspaper from last month that was lying on the table. "I watched the press conference." 

The oil from the pan pops, and Atsumu scoots back half a meter. 

"So what? About the press conference?"

"It was hard," he sounds tired, like it's taking everything in him to explain. "Everyone kept talking about you like you were done for."

Atsumu suppresses the urge to bang his forehead against the counter.

"So," Atsumu tries to figure out how to word himself towards getting more answers. "You decided to walk in here because you thought my career was over."

"No."

Atsumu waits for him to elaborate again, but he doesn't. 

"I don't get it," he admits. "You didn't even call lettin' me know you were coming here, Rin. You didn't even call at all for _four_ years."

"It was hard to hear people talk about you like that," Suna says, ignoring him. 

"Okay." Atsumu doesn't try for anything more. It's pointless. He focuses on the pan. 

But this time, the other man goes on. 

"I've heard people talk shit about you before but on the news… And I never saw you in that much pain before," his voice is soft. "I was in denial for a long time."

Atsumu turns down the stove. He spins himself around, and sees Suna staring at the newspaper on the table as if it were the subject of this small speech. 

"I'm sorry," he says.

Suna keeps going. 

"I wanted to take care of you in person," His legs are crossed under the kitchen table as if trying to take up as little space as possible. "I know it took me a while, but I'm here on purpose."

Atsumu's brain forms at least seven different replies to the actual heartfelt confession that has just been handed to him, but all of them seem inadequate. 

"Well now you're letting me cook for you by accident."

Suna lets out a watery scoff, almost in awe. It lifts something up in Atsumu's chest. He wants to tell him that he's not broken. Neither of them are. 

He balances the food on his way to the other man. 

"These are only wings," Suna says once the plate is put in front of him, and he can't even hide the way his leg bounces up and down at the sight. 

"I know," Atsumu replies. "It's the only part of the chicken you'd eat at lunch." 

Lunches. When they'd sit together under the shade of Hyogo's biggest oak trees. When Suna's gaze towards him was a purposeful act of adoration and not a secret peak of pity. 

Atsumu knows he knows it. "Thanks."

He nods and makes his way back to the stove. Fractures aren't unprecedented. But no one else has a raven-haired lynchpin sitting at their kitchen table.

_____________________________

Sakusa had warned him the day of the press conference that it would be hard and Atsumu should have listened to him. His years dealing with all those reporters prodding into his personal life must have been a living hell.

But denial was always such a familiar street.

"Miya, just wait here until they help you up," Meian had said. "We'll answer the bulk of the questions for you just in case." 

"It'll be fine," he had said to all the men in the locker room. "I'll just get up there and tell everyone it won't affect any of our sponsorships or team dynamics. They care more about that stuff than the actual game, anyways."

Sakusa huffed and turned to lace his shoes up. 

"But we can practice interviewing right now," Hinata had offered, fiddling with his hair in the locker mirror. "Just in case they ask really bad questions."

"No, no, I'll be fine. Honest."

Hinata stopped to look at him, eyes glazed over but pressing a strong smile. 

"Okay," he nodded. "And if it gets bad you can just do the mind trick."

Atsumu attempted to smooth the creases of his button down shirt. "Mind trick?"

"You know," Hinata walked over to sit beside him. "The one where we slice everything into smaller pieces so they aren't as big anymore." 

It was their pre-game ritual, the sure-fire method of getting rid of nervousness. All he had to do was divide a worry in half. Then, in half again. Go on and on reducing it into smaller pieces until it dissolved into nothing. 

So Atsumu sat down in the locker room for an hour before joining them on the stage. 

Slice. 

He had to watch the rest of his teammates explain his own life through a TV mounted to the corner of the wall. 

Slice. 

Every single muscle in his body was limp, unused, wasting against the leather bench he was propped up on. 

Slice.

Foster had said they would find a replacement setter.

Slice.

"There's no one that can replace Miya-san, though."

Slice. Slice. Slice.

He slumped against the wall. It was useless. He could go forever, everything getting smaller and duller and farther, but the worries could never disappear completely. 

Foster and a couple other physical trainers came back to get him, and it was in the moments right before being escorted up to the panel stage was where he blacked out. 

The second he sat down, it was everywhere.

_"Miya-san, have you seen that MSBY stocks are dropping at an alarming rate?"_

_"Miya-san, do you think any replacement setter will be able to conduct minus tempo sets the way you can?"_

_"Miya-san, what are your current plans now that you will not be playing?"_

_"How soon will you be able to play again?"_

_"Could this injury potentially lead to the end of your career?"_

Never before had so many people come to bear witness to his pain. In the midst of too-bright white lights and a buffet line of microphones all waiting to hear his voice, he let go of everything. He lost everything.

He pushed himself up on his good leg, shoulders pulled back as tall as he could stand. In the video, you can see Hinata's eyes grow to the size of saucers, and Bokuto rushing out of his seat to help, only to be stopped by Meian.

"If any of you thought to read a goddamn textbook sometime you would know," Atsumu spoke, announcing each syllable. "That pain is worse when you're active."  
  
They were hooked. It was a paradox in itself. Even through their eyes of pity, he had all the power. 

"So I've decided. That I am going to live the rest of my sad, incapacitated life as an inert asshole." 

Cue the shouts of protest. 

"Thank you and goodnight." 

And then he was being escorted out, hands under his arms, and in that moment of everyone on him he could see the light flashing. Just for him. 

He would watch the moment again later on Hinata's phone, during their way to the hospital, and ask himself _What the fuck were you thinking?_

But even if there was an ounce of embarrassment, he was still stupidly proud. It was something the media would never get right. He still had all his muscles, all his skill, all his brain. 

And there, pressed against the upholstery of that car, he decided the injury was never something truly evil. He wouldn't let it break him into pieces. 

__________________________

"I'm gonna take a bath," Atsumu states once he finishes placing the washed utensils on the drying rack.

"Okay." Suna wipes his hands on the rag hanging from the dishwasher handle. "Do you need help?"

Atsumu pauses. For once, it's a valid offer. It would probably take him the rest of the night to wash himself as carefully as he has to. But the thought of Suna seeing him naked seems just as lethal.

He realizes the hesitation has taken too long of a silence. He settles for a safe, "Maybe." 

"So should I stand by the bathroom door or do you want me in there with you?"

Atsumu stares as Suna pushes a strand of hair back and waits for a response. They really have gone back in time to this strange stage of Mother-May-I.

"Just sit on the toilet seat," he says.

Suna nods in agreement, and Atsumu reaches his hands out to grab for support once more. They make their way down the hallway again, this time to the right.

The light switch flips on and Suna goes to turn the water on, letting it rush onto the tub. He pushes the cap down to clog the drain, and the liquid begins to pool. 

Atsumu balances on his tailbone, sitting at the edge of the tub and resting his shoulder against the tiled wall. When he closes his eyes, it almost sounds like a waterfall.

"You should undress," Suna says. 

When his eyes open, they land on the man sitting in front of him, legs crossed on top of the toilet seat cover. He is holding a water pitcher in his hands.

"Right."

Atsumu peels his shirt up over his head in a hurry. He bends his knee slowly, then drags his shorts in half of a rush, still careful not to get caught against the boot. 

Suna is staring at the floor, transfixed on the fraying carpet. His eyes and nose are both buttons of equal size, until Atsumu's shorts drop onto the floor and the former widen. 

"You weren't wearing any underwear?" He asks.

"I'm in my own apartment," Atsumu counters. 

Suna shakes his head and reaches behind Atsumu to check the water temperature with a flick of his hands. His cheeks and ears are pink. 

"It's warm enough."

Atsumu slides in against the side of the tub, careful to position his leg. He allows the sloshing water to coax him into warmth and faces the wall, unable to see whatever expression Suna is wearing. 

He turns the faucet off once the tub fills. His body is still way too conscious of the presence of another person.

"Suna," he calls. 

"Yeah?"

"Can you help shampoo?" 

He hears feet hitting the tiled floor. A hand reaches across the tub to grab the shampoo bottle.

Then, he still lets out a sigh when he feels hands run through his hair. It lathers enough that all Atsumu can smell is bergamot. 

The bathroom light pulsates above them. It is accompanied by the sound of water dripping from the faucet and hitting the surface of the bath, and the foam being massaged into Atsumu's scalp. 

"Your dye doesn't make the water look like piss anymore," he observes.

"Yeah," Atsumu said, only a little embarrassed. "I only use bleach now."

Suna hums and his hands slowly run down over his shoulders, and down to the cradle of his shoulder blades. He spreads the suds back up to his neck, all the way to his pulse.

"Huh," he pauses in thought. 

"What is it now?"

"Nothing you just-" the fingers press against his skin, pushing up almost into his chin. "You still have a strong heartbeat." 

He states this as if it were some great rediscovery. 

"Oh," Atsumu replies, because really, he doesn't know what else to say.

Suna then removes his fingers and wordlessly leans forward to grab the soap on it's ledge. His hot breath fans over too much skin and Atsumu, on the verge of melting again, goes to latch onto his wrist. 

He turns around to see droplets of water sprayed onto Suna's forehead. He swallows. 

"I can do the soap."

"Okay."

They both return to their own tasks, and Atsumu slowly lifts his arms up to rub underneath, the bar soap coating him in citrus-y white. 

When he gets to his leg, Suna stops with the shampoo and waits for signs of discomfort. But he manages to clean himself without any pain, and then cups the water up to his knee, washing the soap away.

He expects Suna to do the same with his hair. But in one swift motion, the man behind him grabs the water pitcher, dunks it into the tub to fill, and pours the water onto Atsumu's head.

"Fucking hell," he sputters, water falling everywhere, and Suna laughs for the first time today. 

Atsumu, after half a second of shock, finds himself laughing too. 

He repeats the pouring process, this time bringing a palm up to Atsumu's brows to shield his eyes. The water spills off the ends of his hair and back down into the tub. It goes on, this repetitive motion. And maybe Atsumu partly understands what he means, because this could never have happened through the static of a cell phone call. 

When Atsumu pulls the plug up and lets all the water drain out, he notices Suna crane his neck to see swollen lump of foot. It's still not the prettiest picture, the purple discoloration drawing attention to the slightly raised bump.

"It's not so scary," Suna says.

"Really?" 

"Yeah. It's a souvenir," he nods. "Like you're a sacrifice to earth or something." 

Atsumu takes the towel and wraps it around his hips, ignoring the way his hair drips down onto his neck when he swivels his leg up. 

"That sounds a little stupid."

Suna lets out a sigh and Atsumu understands it as an internal roll of the eyes. 

"Well. At least you won the game."

At this, Atsumu smiles, proud.

Suna pulls the hand towel from where it hung on the wall, and leans forward to ruffle it against his hair, droplets of water flying everywhere. 

"Hold still," he commands.

His head throbs in its thick skull. He feels it carrying too much all at once. 

Because there they are in another secret ritual, as intimate as jaw, maxilla, mandible drying. 

__________________________

With his boot back on and gym shorts clad, Atsumu slumps back onto his bed and swallows down another aspirin with some water. He brings the glass up to his head, pressing the cold wet surface against his temple. 

When Suna returns from the bathroom, the front of his shirt is wet. It looks more like a stain than any semblance of clean. 

"Do you want to use the shower now?" Atsumu asks. 

"No," he shakes his head. "Do you have an extra blanket, though? Your apartment is freezing."

Atsumu nods, hobbling over to the sliding closet and reaching for the fleece throw tucked up there. 

He hands it over to Suna, whose silhouette is barely visible in this dim light. They stand like that for a few moments, on the cusp of shadow's temperament. It lasts until Suna mutters a word of thanks and goodnight, the latter which Atsumu parrots, and they part ways. 

__________________________

  
  


Atsumu gets nearly 10 minutes of rest with his back pressed against the bed. Then, his brain rattles with the thought of Suna down the hallway, at the other side of his apartment wall. 

Just for old time's sake, he takes the thought and cuts it into smaller pieces. 

Only Suna would wear a designer wool coat in the middle of spring. 

Slice. 

He's definitely got washboard abs now.

Slice.

All his limbs stood unwavering even against Atsumu's force. 

Slice. 

The knob of his pelvic bone brushed against Atsumu's at dinner. 

Slice. 

Each follicle of Atsumu's own hair has definitely come into contact with the loops and whorls of Suna's fingertips. 

Slice. 

They could touch fingertips again. 

Slice. Slice. Slice. 

The exercise is pointless, he decides. It feels like reducing himself into oblivion. 

__________________________

After five minutes, the door opens again and Suna tumbles in, face flushed. 

"Sunarin," Atsumu says, because this moment warrants syllables just as urgent. He's sitting up, ignoring any pain that surges through his lower half. 

It's almost comical. Suna looks the same as he did half an hour ago in the dark light. The same way he has all afternoon. The same way he did all those years ago (save for a broader chest). The biggest difference now is that Atsumu wants to say he loves it. He wants Suna to forgive himself for once. 

"Atsumu," He walks over to him right now, socked feet pressing against the carpet in large strides. 

His name being called is a comfort which oddly, though appreciated, makes his chest heave once, something invading him shamelessly. 

"Hey," he greets, shoulders slumping against the bed frame.

Suna's hands come up to touch his shoulders. 

"Can I-

He places his hands under the small of Suna's back.

"Come here."

"Okay."

Atsumu's arms wrap around him, engulfing the two of them, and Suna lets himself be pulled onto the bed, stradling Atsumu right around his tummy.

“You know,” He whispers, face tucked into the crook of Suna's neck, "You could have just told me you missed me."

Suna lets out a shaky exhale.

"I was embarrassed." 

Atsumu pulls away and brings his hands up to cup Suna's cheeks despite his lips curved in a little pout. It's overwhelming seeing him in front of him, above him. His face at the very angle that makes every empire that was and ever will be fall. 

His fingertips go to trace the soft skin by his cheekbones. "Like I said, mortification fades."

“You're so annoying,” Suna mutters, but he grabs Atsumu's wrist anyway and closes his eyes under his touch. Before Atsumu pulls his hand away, Suna turns to place a kiss where his forearm vein juts out. 

“You don't have to be scared, Rin,” Atsumu says, intertwining their fingers together and stringing them along his solar plexus. "I'm not gonna die."

"I know" he shakes his head, pulling their fingers back to Suna's chest, dancing right over his own heartbeat. "I thought I could help you the way Kita-san did, the way Aran-san and Osamu used to,"

Atsumu swallows roughly, and the other man continues.

"I must be shit because it ended up being the other way around."

"I'm sorry," Atsumu says, because really, it's the only thing he can say. 

"I'm more sorry."

"You're not shit though, Rin. You used to always take care of me." And the gravity of his own words hit him. "You don't have to make up for lost time now." 

His hand reaches forward to comb through Atsumu's hair. "I know. I was the first person to hit your tosses that didn't share a placenta with you." 

"I hate when you make everything a competition," Atsumu sighs and places his palms on each of Suna's thighs. "You're still all bark and no bite, Rin."

The man above him squints. 

"Well you're just bite. You've always been just bite. Like a rabid dog."

"This sounds like you're looking for a checklist of things to say again." 

"It wasn't like that."

"Well it sounded like it all day," Atsumu has to bite his tongue to keep from laughing now. "Atsumu, you have to clean this mold, Atsumu you can't keep canned goods like this or they'll get ants." 

His Tokyo accent needed some work. 

"That's not what I sound like." Rin takes his hand again, intertwines them both, but he's no longer squinting. His cheeks are dusted with pink. "You still need to learn when to shut up, honestly." 

Atsumu tilts his chin to the side, Adam's apple bobbing.

"Then teach me."

A hand pulls away to rest on the mattress next to his ear. The other tilts his chin up. Inches away, his eyelids flutter closed, and his mouth opens in the closest thing to a surrender Atsumu will get. 

Suna's tongue is warm and silky and gently pushes into his mouth, gliding spit together in a noise that once again pinches Atsumu into the reality of this situation. He has to break away from the mouth to catch his breath.

“I can't give you anything with my leg like this,” Atsumu whispers when Suna sits back. He pushes Atsumu's thighs open with warm palms and the mattress dips as he crawls in between.

“Who said _you_ were going to be doing anything?” Suna questions. 

Atsumu doesn't know what Suna has planned, but the mystery itself with the added layer of all the time they'd spent apart makes every touch feel electric. 

"Are you okay?" Suna asks.

Atsumu nods, pushing the fabric of his shoulder to hold Suna at arms width. 

His lips are shiny red. 

When he blinks to adjust, Atsumu can pinpoint the exact moment Suna must recognize how lewd he must look. Like some sort of doe-eyed lover twentieth century photography muse. 

“Be careful,” Atsumu says when he feels Suna's hand make its way to his boot. His movements are slow and calculated, gently grazing it before pressing a small kiss at the skin just above where it starts. 

"Are you still okay?" 

Atsumu nods again. Even if there was any semblance of pain, the presence of Suna leaning down to press a single peck to Atsumu’s forehead has blocked it out entirely. "Keep going." 

He crawls back up so his feet are bracketed by Atsumu’s knees. His nose bumps against jaw as he travels down Atsumu's throat. "Can you ask for it?"

Suna's warmth breath tingles in Atsumu's ear and he moans softly.

“No,” Atsumu grits out, as Suna's hands run down his torso and pull the shirt up over his back. 

“Atsumu.”

Atsumu is glaring now, hands falling back against the mattress to curl into fists by his side. He knows after a day full of attempts, the newfound power makes him feel fearless.

"Rin," he spills out, softly, and finds solace in the way the man tenses at the call of his name. His eyes aren't meeting Atsumu's, more concerned with sitting back on his heels once again. 

"C'mon," he says, fiddling with a belt at hand. "Just once, for me."

Atsumu wants his gaze again. He wants to bask in its deliberate act of loitering for the rest of his life. And if one word is what it takes, then so be it. 

"Please."

At the sound, Suna's belt slips out of the loops and falls, coiling on the floor like cigarette smoke. 

__________________________

"Thought about what I said earlier."

"You gotta narrow that down, Rin. You said a lot of things today."

"God, I mean. Earlier. In the tub."

"Yeah?"

"You're not a sacrifice to the earth."

"Mmm."

"It's more like you're a survivor."

__________________________

  
  


When Atsumu wakes up, there is nothing but a Suna-shaped indent in the mattress beside him. He tugs at his phone on the bedside table, and it reads 7AM. Suna couldn't have left that early. 

He tosses the phone and pushes the blanket off him once more, attempting to get himself off the bed.

But then, a figure appears in the doorway, already clad in a coat and dress shoes.

Atsumu lets out a sigh of relief. 

"By the way," Suna says, walking over to him. "Osamu didn't tell me where the spare key was."

Atsumu doesn't shy away from the contact now, draping both arms around Suna's neck. 

"He didn't?"

"Most people don't leave their keys in a box of cards hidden in their mailbox," Suna explains, hoisting them both up once again. 

It sends a laugh spilling out of Atsumu, one that bubbles onto the floor every step they take to the front door. Suna doesn't argue that it isn't even a bit funny, just looks at him and smiles. 

One they get to the front door, Atsumu pulls away to lean against the hallway wall.

"You feeling okay?"

"I am," he whispers. "Thank you."

Suna places his finger gently in the nook at the base of his throat and smoothens the skin. Atsumu traces his finger along Suna's spine, over each groove that protrudes out. 

"I'll call you when I get there."

"Okay," Atsumu says. 

He watches Suna coax open the door, and then, in a surge of courage, 

"And Rin?"

The hand that was once curled against the wood freezes. 

"Yeah?"

"If you want to come by again, you can. Like, any time." 

The hand leaves wood to find Atsumu's jaw. It holds it carefully, delicately, like a rare and precious thing.

And Suna kisses him.

Even after last night, it's still earth-expanding in a way that Atsumu feels like he is breathing into Suna or Suna is breathing for him, and they're merging into each other for all the time they will spend apart. The hazy light shines through the living room curtains once more, and Atsumu wants to package each particle like a gift and hand it to Suna for the ride home. 

He doesn't know who pulls away first. But then they're standing with their foreheads touching, and Atsumu isn't awed but a little embarrassed again. He is a comfort to this man in ways other people aren't, and this man is a comfort to him.

Eventually their heads right themselves and Atsumu is able to see himself in the reflection of Suna's pupils, green and warm. 

"I'll be back," he nods. "I promise."

"And if not we'll play against each other soon," Atsumu adds. He had been so used to providing comfort for Suna. But the thought of this man on the court with him again makes him dizzy now, fills him with so much hope. 

Suna nods, maxilla jaw snapping up and down, eager. "You're right. We will. We will." 

And even when his silhouette disappears from the doorway, Atsumu doesn't feel anything leave him. Instead, the open sky greets him hello, and it's like piecing something whole together again.

  
  


**Author's Note:**

> guess what movie this poker scene was from hehe :D im gonna be back on my sunatsukki bs soon! i got a full au planned out, but something tugged in me to post this first.


End file.
